Lightning Strikes
by MusketeerAdventure
Summary: He should have known what was to come. The signs were all there before the precipitous storm even took shape. This is part four of four which captures that brief moment just before lighting strikes and alters the landscape. Each musketeer has his own chapter. Chapter Four: Porthos. This piece is written for the Fete de Mousquetaires April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'. *Complete*
1. Chapter 1

Lightning Strikes

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: He should have known what was to come. The signs were all there before the precipitous storm even took shape. This is part one of two, which captures that brief moment just before lightning strikes and alters the landscape. This piece is written for the Fete de Mousquetaires' April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'.

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Chapter One: Strange Sensation – d'Artagnan

So, finally it was happening. This was a proud moment for sure… to be seen as a man in his father's eyes – an equal, a partner…someone to be counted on. All things he had hoped for – desperately worked toward; and were now coming to fruition.

Hair stood up on the back of his neck; and as he rubbed there absentmindedly, a crackling shock pricked his fingers and startled him a bit….just as his father's announcement had taken him aback earlier this morning. "How fortunate I am", he had thought to himself with pride.

He was going on a journey.

Stuffing his saddle bag quickly with odds and ends needed for a day or two; he felt his stomach flutter with nervous energy. Pausing briefly, he placed his hand there and was certain butterflies resided within; then laughed aloud at such childish nonsense. Stifling his giddiness with a determined nod, he resolved that today he would leave behind all childish notions and concentrate on being the man his father needed him to be.

And yes, more to the point ….the man he wanted to be.

Hurriedly resuming his task – he could hear his father on the other side of the wall gathering his own travel gear and with delight thought back on his jovial declaration, "Together, my boy, we will make our way to Paris and petition the King on behalf of Lupiac." It was a surprise to say the least. Usually Alexandre d'Artagnan traveled with a nearby neighbor or alone – while he was left behind. A child he was in his father's eyes, to be looked after by their foreman; or his aunt and uncle who lived but a stone's throw away.

But not this time; this time his father had gripped his shoulder; stared intently into his eyes and smiled forlornly – as if he were imparting some great secret; or perhaps letting something go. A curious expression he could not quite get a handle on; but the moment was fleeting and gone before he could address it. So instead, with his chest swelling with pride, he had agreed immediately; nodding his head up and down with robust enthusiasm….feeling up to the task offered so freely. "Yes, of course", he had answered – swallowing down a whoop of joy.

Eager - for the first time to leave behind the boundaries of Lupiac, with her rolling hills and wide open spaces - he had run without being told to ready the horses; and to pack his things – making sure not to forget his most prized possession. His father's gift to him; the family heirloom…a sword – presented just recently when he reached his nineteenth year. A most generous, precious gift – wrapped in silk he had waited a lifetime to receive.

And once given….after much training and preparation – he had promised to never let it out of his sight; to treasure it always and to use it in good stead.

He stroked the hilt reverently, overcome with its history; and a sort of static energy engulfed him like a blanket. And within his body, building up from his toes, burned a raging fire of desire to see the famed city of Paris – to walk her cobblestone streets; to lay eyes on his King; all at the side of his father. An honor; an adventure – his dreams come true.

His neck, cheeks then ears flushed hot with the unexpected invitation.

Laughing softly, he knew his cousin would be green with envy – and could just imagine his cheeks puffed, and eyes blazing as red as his hair when they rode by to announce their departure. As it was his aspiration to kick the dust of Lupiac from his boots as well, find his own way; and see what lay beyond home. "Well, I am first", he whispered solemnly to the empty room; then grabbed up his belongings and bounded from the room.

Once in the saddle, now drifting slowly away from his place of birth; his mother's resting place – adorned with pink, and yellow wildflowers; riding side by side, the heat and buzz of his elation collided with his father's cool; serious speech. "When we return, the barn door needs seeing to; the fence around the north pasture must have new railing…..remind me Charles about attending to the roof…"

And as they sauntered away – a strange feeling took hold leaving goose bumps on his arms causing him to shiver with a mix of anticipation and dread – his father's inventory muffling its way down into silence. Dismissing such angst – he looked instead to his tree of sanctuary and thought of the hours, the days – no…..the months and years he had spent day dreaming of this very moment.

How he had sat high up among the greenery, perched on treacherous limbs with the wind catching his breath; imagining within his mind's eye the very place they now headed. Paris…. excited to see for himself her crowded streets. Paris…now, to bear witness to her magnificent, towering architecture so rumored as wondrous. Paris…. finally to know if the tales of adventurous musketeers, draped in blue were really true and not just exaggerations.

Stories of heroic acts and honor told to him by his father over many a meal; out mending fences; tending to crops or late at night seated by the hearth….hearing of the King's elite guard – emphasizing their duty to King and country. Stories so real; told with such truth, that he could almost envision himself with the pauldron adorned on his shoulder, sword in hand – defending the crown, calling out with a euphoric sense of brotherhood, "To me musketeers… to me!", and they would come.

Out in the distance, a momentary flash streaked a jagged, bright light leaving behind a far off rumble of thunder. His horse danced a side step, and he leaned over to whisper reassurances in his ear. The sky seemed clear enough to him; and when he inhaled smelled no trace of moisture in the air and wondered at the coup de foudre. But his father gazed up into the blue expanse; rubbed his troublesome knee with care and considered the road head.

"A hard rain comes" he predicted; and pierced his son with a deliberate stare; along with that curious, unreadable expression upon his face. An uneasy shift in the atmosphere between them had Charles studying the heavens as well, but before he could voice his own wariness – his father shouted, "Let's move before it catches up to us", then surged forward with a quick heel to flank.

And so he followed without hesitation, and did not look back.

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Thank you so much for reading. Please review and let me know what you think! It has been a while since I have written anything, and am a bit nervous. This piece is a two part series of short works as an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the forums page and read about the rules and how to enter.


	2. Chapter 2

Lightning Strikes

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: He should have known what was to come. The signs were all there before the precipitous storm even took shape. This is part two of three, which captures that brief moment just before lightning strikes and alters the landscape. This piece is written for the Fete de Mousquetaires April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'.

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Chapter Two: Strange Sensation – Aramis

The past few days had been fraught with harrowing events– providing more turmoil; and greater still, afflicting more tragedy than he had experienced in quite a while; dredging up memories he had long sense tried to keep suppressed. Such devastating memories struck deep at his core, as the sight of Cornet and his men left to rot in the snow reminded him much of his own personal sufferings.

So much so that even now in this overheated place, with warm bodies pressed close; the fire burning bright in the hearth and strong ale to soothe his insides …..he could readily feel a frigid wind pierce his heart.

Rubbing his hands together to generate some blood circulation he thought on how just some hours ago – he had ridden at break neck speed with Captain Treville to the King's private chambers. It had been a most frantic end to their journey in order to retrieve his seal of pardon. An eleventh hour pardon for an innocent man no less.

It had not taken much on Treville's part to persuade His Majesty of Athos' innocence, as solid proof of Spanish doubloons; musketeer uniforms riddled with bullet holes and covered in blood left little to dispute. Along with a confession of Red Guard complicity, and the cold, stiff bodies of good men, stacked carefully at the back of a wooden cart; stoically parked on immaculate palace lawns was the final bit of truth the King could not ignore.

Or that Richelieu could not turn in his favor.

The Cardinal stood impassive at his sovereign's side - clad morosely in black, his back stiff – expression unreadable; and eyes devoid of compassion. All of which undermined Christian benevolence the heavy silver cross about his neck denoted. Deep within those blue, granite orbs Aramis felt the stirrings of an energy building up to strike with a devastating force.

The King seemed oblivious; but he….Aramis could sense the underlying, raging current of Richelieu's attempts to hide his taciturn and unsympathetic nature. He shivered again, and thought of that moment. How if looks could kill, he would have been incinerated where he stood…. Nothing left; but char and ash.

The disconnect between King Louis' obvious relief he would not have to execute one of his beloved musketeers and Richelieu's uncompromising , coiled displeasure – seemed disproportionate. The malice directed his way as he stood by his Captain; who systematically ticked off the evidence of Athos' blameless and true ignorance of the atrocities committed in his name – was beyond intimidation.

There was a hidden agenda here; one set beyond this commuted sentence – a threat unspoken; yet he understood it all too clearly. This man meant to do him harm.

But when he blinked, the threat seemed to dissipate and the chamber was no longer a conduit of malevolence. Could he have imagined it? Was his mind playing tricks? Transformed, Richelieu changed before his eyes… converted to a man contrite – eyes downcast; his bow low and submissive before his King.

The silent, threatening message directed his way had frightened him and left him feeling, for want of a better word….. unnerved.

Hours later, here with his friends and the youthful d'Artagnan, it seemed the danger had passed. He could breathe. Athos was alive – had survived the near strike of imminent death and sat now at the back of the tavern, drinking himself into oblivion.

Frowning deep in thought, he could not dislodge the recollection of Richelieu's unblinking stare, his jaw tightly clenched and brows furrowed. Shaking his head he attempted to clear his mind of the doom the man emanated and instead thought of his Adele – beautiful, vivacious, soft Adele.

He felt a pull to leave this raucous place and go find her; seek her out and be caught up in the static that was their passion for one another. Envisioning her now, he called to mind their first meeting. He – standing duty at the Royal Ball of Butterflies, watching mesmerized as she, adorned in glittering green, with mischievous sparkling eyes; strode straight toward him as if they were old friends.

The noise in the room had diminished; the music gone mute – his lungs constricted. Later, Porthos would retell the moment – describing him as a fish out of water straining for air.

When she reached his side and with a bold, calculated, audacious move, held out her hand, he was unable to resist. Her smiling introduction was lost to him as were his senses and protocol to his responsibilities. The room full of royalty, dignitaries and courtesans did not exist. He only had eyes for her.

So, without hesitation….. in a daring act of impulsivity, he had deftly turned her hand palm up and lightly kissed her lifelines. And all was adrift from that very hour. He was entranced then, and now almost a year later – continued to be under her spell.

She laughed about their first encounter, and teased him about it every so often. "My suave Aramis", she would coo, "struck dumb by my beauty." And he would nibble at her neck and laugh with her; knowing how true her words were.

For even now, when she touched his skin; kissed his brow; traced the scars on his body – it was as if he were struck by lightning; consumed in a heat that generated from the tips of his toes; traveled up quickly through his limbs and exploded into a crescendo of release that threatened to stop his heart.

Love making with Adele was painful and exquisite; fraught with peril and jeopardy. She was danger that lurked in a safe harbor. Risk of discovery added to their fearlessness and death-defying hunger for one another - even in the face of such a terrifying outcome as the Cardinal's wrath.

But never the less, he needed to see her; be with her – inhabit that spark of adrenaline which always lifted his spirits and chased away glacial nightmares of snow; death and abandonment.

So after helping to deposit Athos on his pallet; wishing d'Artagnan a good morrow; and leaving Porthos to find his own outlet of release, found his way in the early hours of the morning wandering toward her home.

Humming a tune; his heart light – anticipating the rush of heat between them, he knocked at the door, eager to see her; be near her….love her.

But with the door firmly closed to him; and his missing firearm now laying heavy in his hands – his heart skipped an uneven beat. Senses hurdling from joy, to confusion - to panic….. he screamed her name; taking no heed to early morning risers or the spectacle he must seem beneath his lover's window.

Above him, the shutter opened and banged hard against brick – but instead of Adele leaning out with auburn curls askew; her risqué attire leaving nothing to the imagination; or her smile entreating him to hurry in ….. stood only a frightened maid.

Her face stricken with unease as she harshly whispered, "Please sir; my mistress….she has gone from here." And searching the street with anxiety – murmured again more urgently, "You must go", and hurriedly closed the shutter.

Turning in a half circle, he found it difficult to think or comprehend.

That she had left without saying goodbye; without leaving a note or some small remembrance pained him. That she was gone left him bereft. Dumbfounded, he was suddenly aware that her unforeseen departure affected him keenly – made him think that perhaps he did truly love her more than he knew. Perhaps, he should have said those very words to her with more serious intent, and then she would be here still.

Thoughts whirling, he considered his options. Conceivably, he could leave behind this city; his friends; his career and go in search of her – as he had searched for Athos' innocence…..as he had searched in vain for Isabelle; a search for her still, if he were honest. It was a continuous search that had him studying the many faces of Parisian women as he walked her streets….in the hopes that she might be one of them.

But then an agonizing realization hit home. This was his coup de foudre. Maybe true love was never to be in the cards for him. Maybe it was his lot in life to exist without the ardor, love or devoted companionship of a woman…..never to share his most intimate thoughts; or dreams of commitment and desire for family – children; a home.

Nodding sadly, he placed his firearm within the blue sash about his waist – its weight now ill at ease; and unfamiliar where once it had brought him comfort.

She did not have to leave a note.

This quiet, empty departure was her emphatic message that she had made her choice. A life of luxury in the countryside versus the risk of being found untrue to the man….who arguably took care of her every material want or need – alas, denying his Adele her only one real desire; the necessity to be loved with unrestrained fervency.

This was his doing. He had let her down.

Gazing up toward the heavens, he sighed deeply with remorse and whispered, "I'm sorry." in the hopes that wherever she was, she might forgive him, and think of him kindly.

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Thank you for reading. Please review and let me know what you thought of this. I have added a third chapter to this series and hope you will return to read the next entry.

Also, I wanted to say thank you to those guest readers, who I am unable to reply to. Your comments are most welcomed, and very much appreciated.

This piece is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the forums page and read about the rules and how to enter.


	3. Chapter 3

Lightning Strikes

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: He should have known what was to come. The signs were all there before the precipitous storm even took shape. This is part three of three, which captures that brief moment just before lightning strikes and alters the landscape. This piece is written for the Fete de Mousquetaires April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'.

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Chapter Three: Strange Sensation – Athos

Laboriously awakening from vivid nightmares and obscure memories of the night before Athos groaned in pain; opened his eyes and stared blearily up at the ceiling. Though he knew where he was; for the life of him, he could not remember how he ended up here.

Back home on his pallet. With annoyingly; cheerful chattering noises from outside his open window, declaring enthusiastically, the day for others had already begun. He coughed dismissively, and felt the fissures around his heart crack a little more.

Head pounding, he grabbed hold with both hands to keep it from rolling off his shoulders; and then pressed fingers tightly over his lids; effectively obscuring the sunshine pouring in. A deep shudder wracked his body, and every ache and pain made itself known. His head hurt; his body….so sore – it was excruciating to move. He was a mess.

What was he to do now?

Exhaustion weighed him down. He was so tired – tired of being haunted by his mistakes. Weary of closing his eyes and seeing the ghost of her; her apparition circling him; accosting him – never letting him forget.

Anticipating her warmth by his side, each morning he arose – unable to move on to love another. Feeling her hand in his; her smile directed at him – her laugh filling him up with happiness. He was so weary of loving her and hated himself for it.

Her hands bloody; his brother unmoving at her feet, her screams of devotion all but beat him down, and it was destroying him. The very thought of her…Anne – dead by his hand, had presented him with five years of defeated brokenness – because he was too much of a coward to end this. To end this debacle that was his life; or to just let her go.

She walked through his dreams, through his drunken hazes, through his waking hours condemning him – cursing him – screeching at him from the fires of hell. He sensed her always – and sometimes thought he saw her in the flesh, traveling back from hell into limbo, then into this earthly world in order to drive him mad, and drag him down with her.

He welcomed that moment; waited for it daily, hourly – minute by minute; and searched for some way to have this entire torturous anguish end. He wished with determined fervor to complete this ceaseless, downward spiral.

Well, today had been the day; or was it yesterday? Yes….it was yesterday.

Yesterday, where he stood on wobbly knees and begged to have done with it. Stared down a row of muskets – and inhaled what he thought was his last blessed breath here on earth. He had been ready, and for a moment, standing before death, there was complete silence; tranquility and even a sense of peace. And in that vortex of quiet stillness – he could actually discern her presence; feel her watching, waiting from the other side to welcome him and share her suffering.

Finally, God had seen fit to punish him for his crimes; and if not God….then it would be the devil himself who would grant his most coveted desire. He had held his breath…closed his eyes …waited.

And then suddenly there was Aramis – his voice a reverberating strike through the silence calling a halt to it all; Porthos holding him up as the ground shook beneath him, and the boy Charles d'Artagnan – a pleading, apologetic look on his face; followed by a shy smile that seemed to part the menacing clouds.

Groaning, he asked again of himself aloud, "What now?

"Now, my friend, you live."

Removing his hands from his eyes; squinting against the offending sunlight, he was surprised to see Aramis sitting at his feet – but responded anyway – his voice cracked and mouth dry, "Live and do what?"

A shadow crossed over Aramis' features, a glimpse of hidden despondency revealed; but was then quickly replaced by his overt, masked persona of optimism. "That is for you to decide Athos – but whatever that is….we are here for you."

A heavy hand gripped his shoulder and standing above him, Porthos beamed and pronounced, "You will not be rid of us so easily" and laughed, his countenance radiating with joy and relief – recalling to mind that very moment he was spared death's judgement.

"Help me", he asked raising his arms, and both men with little effort, hauled him up to a seated position where he felt the room spin, dip and curve. Placing elbows on knees, and his head in his hands, Athos took a deep breath and was not so sure he felt lucky to be alive.

Aramis pat him on the back none too gently, "Get yourself together brother. We'll go procure a meal, and then go in together to see Treville."

Athos nodded – the pounding in his head the sound of cannon fire; and moaned out his assent.

"And wake your other guest here!" Porthos added as the door closed shut behind him.

Other guest?...he wondered; and through splayed fingers saw lying on the floor – head resting on his brown cloak – soundly asleep, the boy who helped save his miserable life. The very one who smiled shyly and seemed pleased that he lived; who sat with his brothers in the tavern and silently watched him drink himself into a stupor; who he did not recall extending an invitation into his lodgings.

Standing awkwardly from his pallet, he noticed fleetingly that his coat and boots had been removed then thrown haphazardly on the floor; his sword once again prominently displayed above his pallet; and his weapon's belt left hanging on the lone chair. He silently thanked his brothers for attempting to take care of him.

He did not deserve it.

Rubbing raw the sentimental token of forget me nots about his neck; he stumbled to the open window and looked out over the street below. Life moved on beneath him; children laughed, mothers admonished – businesses began opening up to sell their wares; and the throng of Paris humanity gathered to start again.

Leaning against the sill, he breathed in the cool air to help stave off his nausea and wondered if he had it in him to start again. Find that something to keep him going. He had done it before. Treville had reached down into the cesspool he had endeavored to drown in and brought him back to his feet – instilling in him a worthy purpose of duty to King and country.

God knows, Porthos and Aramis had stood by him…never letting him fall too far off the path Treville had set for him. Maybe, he could do it again.

A soft murmur from the floor had him turning to scrutinize the youth in his room. The boy shifted, and then turned away to face the wall; while drifting toward him, a pained call of "Pere" met him with distressing force.

Hands on hips, he studied the floorboards; and sighed – for he understood this level of grief and felt his own wash over him as a torrential; unforgiving downpour.

Turning back toward the window and the outside world, he frowned, and then wondered why Charles d'Artagnan was still here. He had avenged his father – was not his journey over? Home, to Gascony by way of Lupiac is where he should be. Was not someone there to look after him? See to his growth; be sure he was happy and fulfilled – safe from that bubbling volcano of a temper, which reminded him too much of himself?

Pulling on the rope before him, he dragged his ever present bucket up through the window – carried its frozen contents to the middle of the room, and without hesitation fell to his knees. Gathering up some momentum he punched his fist through the thin covering of ice; hoping to sober up quickly.

Plunging his head beneath the frigid water, he thought of what lay ahead for him; and could see nothing; nothing but long hours, days, months and years of continued remorse and recriminations. How was he to stand it?

When he lifted his head above water; gulped in the crisp air of life; and pushed wet hair from his face – he sensed, and then observed there seated on the floor – back flush against the wall, gazing at him with a quizzical intensity …Charles d'Artagnan. His brown eyes panning attentively from him; to his sword mounted above the pallet; to his blue cloak hanging on the peg behind the door.

There was a question in that gaze – no, thousands of questions….he could tell. All bombarding him, a coup de foudre of energy directed specifically at him; waiting for answers.

Staring back, he met the compelling power of it head on, and did not look away. And suddenly a realization hit him. Here was his purpose staring back at him; analyzing him…..searching for something. The "what now" that would give him focused direction piercing him as would a lightning strike.

Abruptly the door burst open and in rushed Porthos and Aramis crowding the room with their laughter and horseplay; arms filled with bread, cheese and wine.

d'Artagnan rose swiftly to his feet, gripping the hilt of his sword, taking in the three of them – his eyes wide with anticipation; and Athos could see hope their also.

Standing tall he came to a swift decision; and offered freely, "Stay, eat with us. Together we will go to the garrison and speak to Captain Treville on your behalf."

Surprised by his own declaration, he sensed within himself a beginning of something, growing exponentially into what he did not know. But as d'Artagnan nodded with a determined purpose and remarked with such passionate sincerity, "Thank you", he could not help but feel a spark of hope.

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Thank you for is the final chapter to my entry. Please review and let me know what you thought of this. This piece is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the forums page and read about the rules and how to enter.


	4. Chapter 4

Lightning Strikes

By: MusketeerAdventure

Summary: He should have known what was to come. The signs were all there before the precipitous storm even took shape. This is part four of four which captures that brief moment just before lightning strikes and alters the landscape. This piece is written for the Fete de Mousquetaires April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'.

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A/N: A guest reader wondered about Porthos; so I have added this chapter…..in the hopes that it does him justice.

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Chapter Four: Strange Sensation – Porthos

Three abreast they walked the overcrowded streets of Paris, side by side….shoulders almost touching, in sync; in stride and pace. A march he told himself. No…a parade of three with swords flashing in the sun; pauldrons adorned; the feathers in their hats swaying…and Aramis' azure blue sash to provide that bit of color.

He always enjoyed this walk to the garrison with his brothers; and with a proud, discerning eye took notice that the many people milling around and about, gave them a wide birth. The commotion of horses, bodies, carts and wayward animals; splintered in their wake to let the small procession file by.

Some with a sense of respectful awe; some with grumbling complaint; and some with a raised eyebrow of obvious appreciation – that most times accompanied a heralded good morrow; friendly wave or a knowing flirtatious wink.

He was forever amused by such ogling and made it a point to smile back and then give a tip of his hat….even to the muttering protesters . Especially to the muttering protesters he mused with good humor. On many occasion such audacity on his part made his day begin that much better or if nothing else helped to spread much needed joviality among the hard pressed observers along their route.

With his chest puffed out; his swagger back intact, Porthos had to admit that despite their previous adversity – he was feeling pretty good. The sun was shining; his heart was light and a mighty intense storm had passed over them without leaving permanent damage. Things were definitely looking up, and he looked forward to things getting back to normal.

Clapping Aramis' back good naturedly as he recounted earlier events at the palace while retrieving Athos' seal of pardon – he couldn't help but chuckle. Aramis had already told this story….. twice – but he supposed he would not begrudge the man's obvious release of anxiety. Athos did not seem to mind the retelling; and the boy – lagging behind them some steps seemed enthralled by Aramis' gift for elegant, verbose recapping of harrowing events. So much so, that he almost seemed to be running to keep up to remain within ear shot.

He thought briefly to slow down the pace to have him catch up, but the others pulled him along in their haste to get to the garrison quickly. So he kept his gait swift alongside his brothers and urged d'Artagnan with a glance and slight wave to "keep up".

Yes – not only were things looking up; it seemed they were changing as well. A drastic turn of events; a strike of unheralded injustice directed at one had set them all on an unforeseen course – ushering in a whirlwind of new life and energy.

Athos lived, and walked with purpose. The previous night's melancholia mixed with reeling intoxication all but set aside….for the moment. Aramis – he could tell had suffered some distressing blow….. to do with love, if the pain in his eyes had anything to tell him. Or was it the reminder of frozen death brought on by their lost brothers – found rigid; stiff….massacred. He should probably get to the bottom of that well of heartache soon, before things got out of control.

And then, there was this bolt of lightning, d'Artagnan….who out of the blue crashed into their threesome and with shocking speed took hold of their coat tails and seemed eager to join their ranks.

Things were happening awfully fast; and Athos' invitation to have them all speak on d'Artagnan's behalf was surprising, but not unwelcome. To see him quick to offer mentorship meant something good was taking place. Perhaps another brick toppled down from that high altitude of a fortress he hid himself behind. He was glad to see it in Athos. Maybe, this was a turning point.

As the street narrowed, and came to an end before the gates, simultaneously they came to a halt and looked beyond the threshold into the garrison yard. The clank of swords; the crack of gunfire; the smell of Serge's freshly baked bread- the noise of comradery accosted them; and set their nerves at ease.

He could detect the familiar, in sync collective sigh of relief from them all. They were home.

Looking to each other, waves of gratitude for surviving overwhelming peril….yet again; washed over them and the sense of love he felt for these men – his family had him suddenly laughing aloud. Without hesitation, he clapped his hands together; the sound reverberating like a strike of lightning hitting the earth before them – his booming laughter a rumble beneath their feet.

"It is good to be home" he thought to himself; and saw in the faces of Aramis and Athos the identical sentiment in equal measure of assertion. For Aramis' eyes twinkled with mirth; and Athos bowed his head to keenly study the cobblestones in order to mask his gladness - his hat…. a tangible shielding buffer against unwanted intrusion into witnessing his true feelings.

Next to him, d'Artagnan frowned and scrutinized them closely. He could only imagine the confusion he must feel; as d'Artagnan did not understand their language. How they spoke to one another without words or sometimes without gesture. It was with their hearts whereby they communicated; encouraged; grieved and fought.

The very traits that had left them saddled with the moniker of inseparable.

Gazing up to the pristine, cloudless sky – he knew without a doubt that he would be lost without these men standing beside him – who with open arms and without judgment accepted him for who he was….flaws and all. These two men who over time, along with his Captain, had befriended, cared for and helped to redefine for him the definition of family; home; and glorious adventure. He could not live without them.

He was a work in progress, his past a constant weight never lifted; and they didn't care.

Spontaneously he reached for Athos; held him by the shoulders; squeezed tight and conveyed with whispered assurances in his ear, his heartfelt contentment that the three of them were once again together – pulling in Aramis to join them in this still repose.

After some silent contemplation; individual reflection; and curious looks from d'Artagnan, as one between the three; the decision was made to release one another; step over the threshold and make their way toward the stairs leading up to Captain Treville .

But then he felt an odd sensation of something missing; a space not filled…..and Porthos halted; looked back and observed d'Artagnan caress the hilt of his sword; and swallowing hard retreat back to re-enter the street.

Frowning, he realized suddenly, with a jolt that he would not allow this lad to withdraw….to miss out on this great opportunity offered – the adventure of a lifetime; the very real possibility of becoming a musketeer. A chance he seemed to desperately want. He would push him forward as Aramis and Athos had done selflessly for him.

So he circled the boy and nudged gently from behind with a tug at his collar. Then with warmth grabbed him about the neck kindly; and then with sincere encouragement announced, "Go on through pup – no one's leaving you behind."

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Thank you for reading. Please review and let me know what you thought of this last chapter. No really...it is; I promise this time! This piece is an entry for the Fete des Mousquetaires' April theme of 'Coup de Foudre'. If you would like to learn more about how to participate, please go to the forums page and read about the rules and how to enter.


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